


The Thing

by TheSleeplessWriter



Series: An Agreement of Sorts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confession, Drug Use, Forgiveness, Guilt, M/M, References to Drugs, reckless Sherlock, the thing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleeplessWriter/pseuds/TheSleeplessWriter
Summary: Sherlock finally gives in and talks about the mysterious incident that left him wanting retribution.





	The Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/gifts).



It took Sherlock months to talk about the Thing. That's what he and John called the mysterious incident that left Sherlock wanting punishment. He didn't know what it was that drove him to confess. Maybe it was because John was proud of how quickly he had solved their most recent case. Maybe it was the way he smiled and teasingly called him a good lad. The praises made him feel guilty.

"John. I want to talk about the Thing." He said abruptly one late afternoon, slamming his half empty cup of tea. The contents sloshed and nearly spilled as he pushed it away from him on the coffee table. 

John furrowed his brows. The Thing? The Th- Ohhh, that Thing. "Alright, go ahead." He leaned back comfortably on his chair, preparing himself for whatever he was about to hear. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He didn't want to look negative. Sherlock looked uncomfortable enough. 

"Okay," Sherlock cleared his throat and loosened his shoulders. "It's quite a lot. Do you remember how you thought it was Mrs Hudson's grandson who stole your cash? The one," He expressively gestured to his face and hair. "With the piercings and green hair?"

John nodded. Mrs Hudson had a delinquent looking grandson who had more metal in his face than flesh and had never been seen with same hair color twice. Honestly, the boy seemed more like a sleepy pothead who was always hungry, not a thief. Still, when he found 150 pounds stolen from his wallet, what was he to think?

"Well, it was me. I needed the cash. And, remember how I said I visited my parents that week?"

John nodded again. He now felt guilty for accusing Mrs Hudson's grandson of taking the money simply because of his appearance. (Oh, how Mrs Hudson had yelled, saying her grandson may be into drugs, but he was not a thief.) Without noticing, he had crossed his arms again."I gave you money for the Tube." He recalled, remembering how Sherlock had asked for cash because he hadn't any at the moment.

"Yes. I didn't use the Tube. I went to Peckham and spent the weekend in an abandoned building, where I smoked or injected whatever the stupid smackheads had. I don't even know what half the stuff was." Sherlock spoke more to the floor than to John, finally looking up at the end to see his reaction. 

Sherlock had promised he would stop using drugs. Not a throwaway promise either, but a serious one. John had sternly told him his life wasn't worth the fleeting highs he could receive from the illegal substances. And then he promised he would stop, that he would focus on other sources to cure his boredom. 

John had expected something bad, so this shouldn't have been a surprise. His head swam with questions, but he settled on one. "Why?"

Sherlock frowned, his face grimacing as he remembered the events leading up to his weekend in the drug house. "I was...angry. Frustrated. Bored. Lestrade had kicked me off the Hastings case, all because I made the intern cry. I was dreadfully bored. You were busy, working extra shifts at the clinic. I sat alone in the living room, staring at the wall till I went mad. So I took the money and left. I did pay you back, though. Remember how you found 175 pounds in the streets while we were walking? I left that for you to find."

He looked down to his hands, which were drumming a harried beat on his leg. "I did loads of things in that house. I still don't quite remember what was real and what wasn't. I think I may have wrestled a druggie for a joint and almost broke his wrist. I don't know. All I cared about was keeping the high steady and taking whatever I needed to stay there."

John breathed slowly, trying to process all he was hearing. "What made you leave?" 

If Mycroft was to be believed, Sherlock had stayed in drug dens for weeks at a time. Sometimes it was only till police broke in that he was pulled out of his drugged haze. That had supposedly happened right after Sherlock had graduated with his degree in chemistry. 

"You." Sherlock locked eyes with John, his hands stopping their worried dance. "You called me, asking how the weekend was going. You asked I was coming home that night, because my favorite Korean barbecue place had a 2 for 1 deal. I was about to start on my next injection, which was probably contaminated. I was surrounded by dirty floors and lost people and your voice cut through all that. You care more than any friend I've ever had. So, I dropped the needle and climbed out that hellhole. I washed my face in the sink, dressed into my change of clothes, and met you at 7:00 for the Korean barbecue." 

John sighed, standing up. He needed to think. His eyes were stormy and his shoulders tense. He realized Sherlock needed to be shown support and forgiveness, but he was too upset to give that at the moment. Seeing John stand, Sherlock stood abruptly.

"Are you going to punish me again?" He asked, his hands once again drumming against the back of the chair.

John shook his head, looking out the window at the passing cars. He didn't punish twice.

"Are you going to leave?"

At this question, John's stony expression softened. There was so much innocence and concern in that one question. He turned to face Sherlock, stroking his cheek kindly. It may take him a bit of time to stop being upset over this, but he felt much better knowing that Sherlock trusted him enough to confess. They could now steadily move on, and no longer hang onto waiting to hear about the Thing. A small smile ghosted John's lips.

"It'd take a hell of a lot more to get me out of this flat."

**Author's Note:**

> High there! I've finally gotten around to wrapping up the plot threads from the last segment of AAOS. Dedicated to PatPrecieux , who begged "frice" for another installment. Hope you liked, and feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticisim :)


End file.
